


10,000 Hours

by madame_faust



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Gen, Mother-Daughter Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 07:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: Common wisdom would have it that 10,000 hours of concentrated effort or practice is needed to master an ability. Like playing the violin. But how many hours does it take to become extraordinary?Some minor spoilers for the series, but nothing major, this takes place about seven years before the series starts.





	10,000 Hours

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine the tune Vanya plays at the end of the story is Mozart's Adagio in E. Major (it's written for violin and orchestra, but Vanya doesn't have any backup here, which is fitting).

According to a theory originated in Sweden and popularized in American self-help books, it takes 10,000 hours of concentrated effort to achieve mastery of a skill. Like playing an instrument. Assume three hours of practice a day, account for sick days, fits of idleness, occasional time off and, according to this theory, mastery would be achieved in about ten years. A daunting prospect for the beginner, but ultimately attainable. 10,000 hours. Or, for one Vanya Hargreeves, upon completing her music lesson on a sunny afternoon in 2002, 9,999 hours. Already she'd sort-of learned a song, 'Mississippi is a River.' That night, she practiced for an additional hour (9,998), until Diego pounded on her door and announced that he'd _finally_ figured out her power: the ability to make people's eardrums bleed.

After that she stopped practicing near the bedrooms, finding a little room on the top floor, hidden away, and most of her family forgot about the violin lessons at all. When she worked up the nerve to ask Dad about continuing to borrow his violin, he blinked at her behind his monocle, then looked at the empty side table in his study as though he wasn't sure how the violin and its case had gone from that table to her arms. He never did say yes. But he turned away from her and went back to coordinating the next week's training schedule for the Academy and, after ten minutes of being ignored, she crept quietly out, violin still hers. 

When Five disappeared, Vanya tried to as well. She'd moved on to songs now and had a few simple variations in her repertoire. 'Ode to Joy,' didn't seem like a particularly fitting song to play when one's brother had literally vanished into thin air, but it was the hardest song she knew and the one she had to concentrate to get right. She lost track of how long she'd been playing and might have gone at it all night, had Grace not been sent to find her when she missed supper.

"Vanya. Come downstairs. You don't want your dinner to get cold."

She jumped. Her heart pounded, but she didn't know why; something unpleasant churned in her mind, congealed oatmeal and breaking glass. Vanya blinked and her heartbeat slowed. Just Grace, smiling pleasantly at her, one hand partially outstretched, beckoning.

"Sorry, Mom," she apologized, hastily putting the violin and bow back into its case. She didn't want to eat her supper, didn't want to look at Five's empty chair. But there were consequences for skipped meals. There were consequences for everything.

Right now, though, everything was calm. Grace was still smiling, her warm, wet eyes (no tears, just lubricant, but they glittered when they caught the light and were beautiful) flickering down to look at the violin case. "How many hours?"

"I don't know," Vanya apologized. "I came down after lunch, when Pogo said there wasn't anything to do but wait. I'm sorry. I lost track of time."

Grace's smile broadened. Her teeth glittered like her eyes. "Oh no, sweetie. Not that. Nevermind that. How many hours have you practiced?"

"I..." Truthfully, she hadn't been keeping track. 'A lot,' probably wouldn't satisfy Grace, whose job it was to report on everyone's weight, height, and vital statistics before they showered in the morning. Even hers, though she didn't see what it mattered. "I've been playing about a year, Mom."

Grace nodded, her smile smoothed into a contemplative expression. She wasn't clockwork, but Vanya thought she could almost hear her ticking when she looked like she was thinking. "One year. Average three hours a day. You had the flu in February. Three days in bed. Three-hundred and sixty-two days. 1,086 hours. You're one-tenth of the way there!"

The smile was back, broad and the artificial flesh around her eyes creased in happiness. She reached out with a hand that was just the side of too smooth, too hard, and too cold to be human and gave Vanya's shoulder a gentle squeeze. 

At the time, Vanya didn't understand. It would be another six years before the aforementioned self-help book was published and the whole world knew about the 10,000 hour theory. How Grace had heard of it, Vanya didn't know. It wasn't even scientific; it was only that 10,000 was a nice, round, memorable, ambitious, but ultimately attainable number. She certainly didn't forget it. And neither did Grace.

Sometimes they passed on the stairs Grace would give her a smile, seemingly for no reason, until she said something like, "2,045 hours." The smile was a programmed code, a series of wires and tubes making the material of her face stretch and contract, but Vanya secretly felt like _that_ smile in particular, the 'I know you've been practicing,' smile was meant just for her. She was the only one of the children who regularly practiced an instrument. Allison took piano lessons for a while, but tired of it; telling her piano teacher that she 'heard a rumor' there was nothing more he could teach her didn't _actually_ make her a real pianist. Vanya would be a real violist. Not just real - extraordinary.

There were some bumps in the road, though. After Ben...after Ben, she didn't play for a week. It wasn't like it had been with Five. Because Five was _lost_. Ben was _gone_. Forever. A statue in the backyard. Maybe a whisper in Klaus's ears, but Vanya never had the chance to ask if he heard or saw him; after Ben, Klaus left. No statue of him in the courtyard, but he was gone just the same. 

Allison went to California. Diego disappeared for longer and longer stretches. And Vanya, she went to college. To major in music study. Even though, as Grace occasionally reminded her during the few days she helped her pack to leave the Academy, her practicing had stagnated. "5,475 hours. You're halfway there, Vanya!" She repeated that seven times in three days. Vanya didn't think it was a glitch in her code; just good old-fashioned, flesh-and-blood motherly passive aggression. 

When she went to college, it wasn't with the notion that she was never coming back. She came back for Thanksgiving that year (Mom, Dad, Pogo, herself, and Luther, with a conference call from Allison; she pleaded sick on Christmas and said she had too much studying to do on spring break). But as time went on, it became easier and easier to stay away. No one asked for her. No one looked in on her. No one except for Mom.

"How is school, sweetie?" she always called, like clockwork, every Sunday at 4:00PM. "How are your grades? How many hours did you practice?"

It occurred to Vanya that this might just be Dad's way of collecting statistics (Mom also asked her how often she was eating, and in what quantities, and how many bowel movements she'd had), but for the fact that there was no point. There was no Academy anymore. And even when there was, she'd never been a part of it. After three years of not going home, three years of not hearing from anyone other than Grace, she assumed that she was only looking in on her. Like moms did. 

Vanya took to recording the amount of time she practiced; Grace's tone brightened and changed when she was given hard numbers rather than approximations. "8,789 hours! Almost there!"

In 2012 on their twenty-third birthday, Vanya was sitting in her rented room, writing out cards. There were six lined up on the table. Luther's was the easiest to send; still at the Academy. Allison's went to her agent; at least she consistently responded; a 'personalized' note that read the same: _**Thanks for all the love and support! - Allison Hargreeves**_  

Klaus's card bounced back with a 'return to sender' sticker more often than not; this year she was sending it care of the last rehab facility he'd stay in. Same deal with Diego, only his was sent to the police station. Ben's she burned; the whipping little tendrils of smoke curling and enveloping the card reminded her of him. Five's she put in an old binder from school; there were nine cards already tucked away in there; this would make number ten. She'd licked the envelope shut and was about to put it with the others when one of the other tenants knocked on her door and said she had a phone call.

For a second, she froze, looking down at _Five_ scrawled on the front of the envelope. Was it...?

"She says she's your mom."

Vanya let out a breath. She dry-swallowed her evening dose of medication before she went into the hall to take the call. The girl who held the phone was about her age, dressed up, in full make-up, which did nothing to cover her impatient expression. "Keep it short, I need to call my boyfriend for a ride."

She promised she would and took the phone; the girl vanished through the door to her own apartment.

"Hi, Mom," Vanya said, turning her back to the girl's door. "Thanks for calling."

"Happy Birthday, Vanya, sweetie!" Grace chirruped through the phone. "Are you coming home for dessert? I can whip up strawberry shortcake. Your favorite!"

"No, Mom. I haven't - " she swallowed. There was no reason to remind her. No reason to draw attention to the fact that she hadn't seen her in five years. A pang of guilt twisted mildly in her stomach; no matter how bad it was for her, she should probably make an effort for Grace. If things got too awful now, Vanya could leave. Grace could not. "I'm not coming home tonight, Mom. Not this year."

"Oh," a subtle drop in cadence. Disappointment? Acceptance? Hard to tell through the phone. "Well, I hope you have nice plans."

"Just practicing," Vanya replied honestly. Then added, "I have an audition coming up."

"How many hours have you practiced this week?" 

Fifteen, Vanya informed her. Grace inhaled deeply, almost like a gasp; she didn't breathe, strictly speaking, but she did need to take air in to allow her voicebox to work optimally. 

"10,007 hours!" she exclaimed and Vanya could hear the happy crackle in her voice, even over telephone lines; she could picture her smile, exactly as it always was. The special one. Just for her. "You did it, Vanya! I'm so proud of you. You're an expert. A master. You must be so happy."

Was she happy? Not exactly. But Mom sounded happy and that was almost good enough. 

"Play for me, won't you?" Grace laughed, a brief birdlike giggle. "A gift! For me. On your birthday! Isn't that silly?"

"No, Mom," Vanya said, a smile curling her own lips. Unprogrammed. "That's not silly at all. Let me get my violin."

She was gone less than thirty seconds. A blink of an eye compared to 10,000 hours. But in thirty seconds, the girl from down the hall hand hung up the phone and dialed her boyfriend. It was another fifteen minutes before Vanya could dial the Academy.

After five minutes of endless ringing she gave up; no one was going to answer. 

Vanya hung up the phone and went back into her apartment, violin and bow hanging from one limp hand. She looked at the cards lined up on the table. Happy Birthday. _You must be so happy!_ She wasn't. Not at all.

The cards went into the trash. All of them. Even Ben's. Even Five's. 

It was still early, but she almost went to bed, then and there. There was a sound from the street, a distant honk; the hall girl's boyfriend must have come to get her. Vanya wondered if they were celebrating something. 

She went to the window and opened it. A cold wind whipped past the screen, blowing her hair away from her face, making the curtains and the paper on her music stand flutter. 

Vanya looked out across the city. Mom couldn't come to her. And Vanya couldn't - wouldn't - go home. 

"Mom would probably like Mozart," she muttered to herself. Then she spoke again. No louder, but out the window this time. "Thanks again for calling, Mom. I appreciate it."

Vanya shouldered the violin and played deep into the night, as the wind continued to come in through the window and make her fingers numb. 10,009 hours. 


End file.
